Deep Dark Gothic Poetry

You are in a solemn mood, ready for the Deep Dark Gothic Poetry that will sate your urgings for the sacred mysteries of the Goth life. Nothing can keep you from embracing the blood red passions of this clan of creatures of the night. 

If you are truly ready to explore your inner Goth, this chilling collection of deep dark gothic poetry will serve as your propellant, pushing you over the edge of the proverbial precipice. 

Your purpose is to become one with this deeply mystifying, subterranean world of nocturnal beings. To unite with your brethren in this guild of ashen white and midnight black.  Deep dark gothic poetry will set the mood.

If you are already there, you will especially enjoy this disturbing assemblage of deep dark gothic poetry that speaks directly to the unusual life you have chosen.

On Sacred Ground

I stray onto sacred ground
The resting place of souls bygone.
Solace is what I seek,
But there is no solace
No succor to be found
Not here among broken, fallen stones.
Nor bent, wilting trees.
I search for you under the moon
Thoughts of you race through my mind
Feelings better left unspoken.
This was our place
The fertile earth from which the black rose of our love took seed.
We exchanged blood amidst these graves.
Transfused our darkest thoughts and dreams.
It is here too that our love died.
A fitting place for something that is no more

The Object Before Me

I lie awake in my bed
Covered in sweat
A dripping cold sweat that cascades slowly down the surface of my pale skin.
I stare blankly at the sharpened blade before me
Gently, even lovingly, caressing the handle,
running my gothic fingers over its cutting edge.
The sky is especially black this evening
It makes me happy.
From the dwelling next door I hear laughter.
A vapid, perfunctory cackle that fills me with rage.
My morbid seclusion is affronted by such frivolity.
Again I stare at the blade
An object of ritual with
a grand, malevolent air.
It is beautiful.
I gently raise the knife so that it is held before my eyes.
It shall be consecrated in blood
As I am wont to do

Our Gothic Journey

Let us walk this evening
Together we two
And embark on a journey which can do no good.
Cutting through the mist of foggy moorland
Stepping over peat and marsh,
we walk into the deadest of night.
We are not occult figures. 
Our pale, ashen skins light the way against a darkened sky
The fog grows dense
We are overcome by a sudden strangeness.
An impending gloom that rises 
like a carefully graduated crescendo.
We know that something evil is in the distance.
Our nighttime journey has taken us far,
too far in fact as we come upon a wood,
a thick wood of beech and oak.
Without a moment's respite we hear footsteps.
They grow steadily louder as someone, or something, draws nigh.
Emerging from the distance is a man on a steed
A black horse of splendid bearing.
The fellow is clad in dark cape and 
Victorian top hat turned up slightly at the brim.
His lips are an unusual shade of crimson,
painted on like a splattering of blood.
Lucy and I hold one another tightly.
Two Goths without fear of the night
trembling at this sinister presence.
The stranger stands before us.
He offers no salutation nor reason for his approach.
Gently, almost pleadingly, he takes Lucy by the hand
which he kisses in the most delicate manner.
She is mesmerized by the man, as if in a trance.
The gentleman speaks his first words,
telling her it is time to go.
Acquiescing to his genteel but firm command,
it is as if this is something she expects,
something it is her duty to abide.
Lucy ascends the horse without objection, without hesitation.
Together they ride off, leaving me alone in the wood
on this deadest of gothic nights.

Drawing Blood

Sometimes I draw blood
My own blood
It is a ritual I undertake with the utmost solemnity.
I gently puncture my finger with a pin,
a pin I keep hidden away for just such a purpose.
I squeeze the tip of my affronted digit to control the flow.
Releasing and withholding at will,
letting the scarlet substance seep slowly into a crystal glass.
I admire its consistency,
the richness of its color.
So much is reliant on this stuff which
fuels the imaginings of saints and scoundrels,
and stirs my own hidden passions.
My ritual reaches its denouement
as I consecrate my body in its own blood.
I return it from whence it came
The glass stands empty.
I sleep

Take Me

You are my gothic knight
My dark Romeo who stirs me like no other.
I see you in my dreams
where my gluttony for you knows no boundaries.
You emit a refined, stately demeanor,
so pale and so serious.
All who know you fear your wickedness
Your gothic ways.
I shall serve you as your goth maiden
Standing at your side under the murky night sky
Take me.
Let me offer blood as a sign of my love.
As a symbol of my passion
Take me.

Poetry by Alan Loren

Share Your Deep Dark Gothic Poetry and 
We'll Publish It Online

Are you a poet or aspiring poet. Our editors are always looking for new poems to add to our collection. Submit your Deep Dark Gothic Poetry to our editors by  clicking the "contact us" link at the bottom of this page.


Search Here for Poetry

Click here if you love us! Follow Me on Pinterest